


Assets

by whipperschnapper



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: JMGE 2019, JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2019, M/M, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipperschnapper/pseuds/whipperschnapper
Summary: Marco and Jean are assigned to work on a school project together, leading Marco to take every chance to cover his assets. Which would be MUCH easier if Jean weren't of the business of un-covering those assets.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2019





	Assets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreckledSkittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSkittles/gifts).



> My gift for the lovely @FreckledSkittles!

"All in all," Jean started, rubbing the side of his nose in that pensive way of his; with a smile tucked behind his coffee, Marco spotted a faint blue smudge on his right nostril, left over from the ink stains on his fingertips. “This is a really good essay. Really good.” Jean pinched the three pages before his face, unwittingly leaving another smudge, this one matching near-identical to his left thumbprint. “Like, Jesus, Marco,” Jean chuckled, his eyes flitting over the edge of the papers to meet Marco’s. “You should write a book someday. Fuck.”

Marco laughed at the compliment, cheeks pink. “Thank you, Jean.” His thumb traced the lip of his paper cup, skin on cardboard, over and over. “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, though.”

Jean grinned, impish then bashful. His eyes moved back down to the essay, the one Marco had spent the last four days perfecting, and his eyebrows crinkled with an embarrassed smile.

“Remind me what you’re saying in it?”

Marco’s face fell, eyes dropping. “It should be a comparison between Frankenstein and The Fantastic Voyage, with it being obvious I prefer one over the other.” His mouth twitched once, teeth grinding at the inside of his cheek. “Guess, I missed the mark, huh?”

“Well,” Jean’s voice pitched as he took back the pages. “Partially. I can tell you like Frankenstein more, but right now it seems like you’re only writing about Shelley with some random Asimovs thrown in there.”

“Right,” Marco glanced at the pages as Jean set them between them, blue pen tapping one passage in particular:

_Shelley drew the short stick as far as film adaptation goes. Visual effects and era aside, it’s made obvious no director has fully read and grasped the novel’s true meaning, and the sheer amount of false adaptations prays witness. Not only did Asimov’s novel need a single film to get the point across, but the effort displayed to the audience is obvious within the first five minutes as it actually follows the original script to the word in some parts. All Frankenstein got was Boris Karloff in stilts and Colin Clive’s hysterical screams of “It’s alive! It’s alive!”_

“That one’s my favorite,” Jean grinned. “A subtle dick punch to Asimov.”

Marco snorted and gathered up the pages. He checked his watch and stood. “It’s not a dick punch, Jean. Don’t be vulgar.”

A stark eyebrow lifted at Marco, and Jean cupped his hands around his mouth. “Isaac Asimov is a bitch!” Dozens of eyes looked at him from all corners of the cafe, and Marco whipped around at light speed to avoid being associated with him. “Mary Shelley would totally have his ass in a fight!”

“Excuse me, pardon me.” Marco’s attempt to flee was thwarted by the sudden onslaught of students rushing in from the cold, and it was no time at all that Jean’s voice caught up to him.

“Frankenstein deserves better! The monster wasn’t an ugly dipshit, but Victor!” Any students who failed to move for Marco were quick to keep away from Jean, sending odd glances and sneers in his direction as he trotted up behind Marco with a laugh. “All Asimov had was a barely-concealed vore fetish!”

“Would you stop?” Marco whipped on him with an exasperated grin. “That’s disgusting.”

Jean shouldered Marco, wiping his nose and bristling as the wind sunk its teeth right through his hoodie. “You watch the movie and tell me I’m wrong.”

“We watched it together, and I swear you made that joke at least seven times.” Marco sighed, pressing the button at the crosswalk and checking for cars before charging forward through the chill. “It wasn’t funny then, either.”

Jean kept pace with a secret grin. “Why are you laughing then?”

Marco sent a withering glance down at him.

_Because I’d laugh at anything you could do._

A rueful smile played at his lips.

_Because I’ve almost told you and I hate that I like that._

“Because where else am I going to find humor dumber than mine?”

***

“You could always talk to Eren,” Jean suggested. “Everything he does is stupid.”

That same half-grin played at Marco’s lips, sending Jean’s mind racing. His eyes searched for the dimple on Marco’s right cheek, but that fucking scarf obstructed his view.

And then it was gone.

Marco’s steps shuffled as they always did when they made it to the Cafe Rio at the corner of Main and sixth, where he’d turn left to get to his dorm, and Jean right to get to the townhouses a block away.

Jean watched him silently, looking for something, anything, in his expression which might indicate he wanted to stay.

Marco only shivered with the wind.

“Did you snag that interview?” Marco asked after a moment, when Jean dejectedly looked the other way. “For Survey?”

Jean glanced up once before nodding. Inspecting the dirty snow at his feet, he recited, “Interview with Erwin J. Smith, CFO at Survey Systems Incorporated, Thursday the twenty-third at eleven-thirty antemeridian to twelve postmeridian.”

Marco sighed. “I have class until twelve-fifteen.”

Jean shrugged with a smirk. “Don’t sweat it, dude, it’ll be recorded. Just do the write-up and we’re even.” And tell me how much you love me for having an uncle working in the right place, and for getting this interview out of the way three weeks in advance.

“I don’t know,” Marco huffed. “You think I can get the point across?”

His tone was joking, but Jean heard the note of seriousness deep in his words.

“Shut up!” Jean snapped, and Marco flinched. “I mean...don’t talk about yourself like that. It’s a simple mistake. At least you know what a comma splice is.”

Marco smirked at Jean, lips curled in that same half-grin as before, sending Jean’s lungs swelling in his chest. He caught the dimple that time. “So do you.”

“Yeah,” Jean huffed, puffing hot air into his cupped hands once. “After you told me. You know the write-up’ll be shit if I do it.”

Marco sighed again, glancing once at his boots. “You’re probably right. About my writing, not yours,” he was quick to add. “Yours isn’t that bad.”

Jean gave him a withering look. “Don’t lie for my fucking benefit, dude.”

Marco scoffed. “It’s getting better. And you’re not an English major, so it’s no big deal.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Are we still on for a study sesh tonight or what?”

With a shrug, Marco said, “I was planning on it.”

“Cool. Be over by seven and we can hang in the front room.”

“‘Kay.”

“See you then.”

“...Bye.”

Jean left him with a pointed look, one which Marco didn’t seem to catch from the way his eyes were still trained on the ground. Try as he might, Jean couldn’t fully convince himself it wasn’t because he was still sour he had to be assigned to Jean for this interview thing and not one of his many friends in the class.

Jean’s sneakers squelched and squeaked as he trudged home, his socks wet and freezing over his feet.

At least Marco was polite enough to keep things civil in the beginning. God knows Jean hadn’t the patience for that kind of crap, least of all toward someone so suspiciously friendly.

“You’re a direct person, huh?” Marco wondered when they scoured the student library for the dumb fucking stylebook needed for the write-up before the last one was gone. “That’s nice. I’m too great at getting to the point myself.”

He’d ended the statement with a faint chuckle, his cheeks peppering light pink, and Jean spotted through the stacks a half-grin on his mouth, a single dimple cratering deep into his right cheek with it. It was breathtaking.

“Not to sound like some nihilist asshole from your philosophy class, but I really do think formality is bullshit. Especially if we have to work together.” Jean cleared his throat where his voice cracked, and resumed his search for the book. “Man, fuck the dewey decimal system. These dumbasses don’t even know how to do it right.”

That earned a straight laugh from Marco, who was just a half-second slow slapping his hand over his mouth before the sound hit the air.

Jean crouched before the stacks a moment, head tilted to read the titles and letters and decimals in search for the correct one. Secretly, silently, he wished he could hear that laugh again and in its entirety, but like fuck was he about to say that to a perfect stranger. Regathering his resolve, his eyes searched farther down until at last:

“Ha! Fucking finally!” his thin fingers grabbed the spine of the stylebook, right hand braced against the textbooks stacked atop in some cheap attempt at Jenga-ing the stylebook out.

“Wouldn’t just moving those be easier?” Marco wondered, rounding the bookshelf and leaning against a section filled with books on ancient Greek and Latin.

Jean glanced up from his work briefly before returning to the daring task at hand. “Lugging textbooks is for schmucks.”

Marco snickered again, but it wasn’t the same laugh as before. Somehow, he’d muted it, and Jean frowned to himself.

With a final tug, the stylebook came loose, the stack barely teetering in its wake.

“See?” Jean waved the book triumphantly for Marco to see. “Nothing to it.”

Marco grinned, and made to applaud Jean’s bravery, when, almost in slow motion, the stack leaned back too much, the textbooks sliding off each other. They tumbled to the floor in a series of thuds and thumps, both boys watching with expressions ranging from quiet amusement to tired disdain.

“Mother fuck,” Jean muttered under his breath and slapped the stylebook down. Reaching on his hands and knees, he grabbed book after book, returning them to the same stack as before.

With a grin, Marco joined him, pulling up the sleeves of his sweater. Jean glanced at his strong wrists and the hair covering his forearms before busying himself with the stack once more. They grabbed books in silence until Marco’s fingers grazed the cover of one before Jean could take it from him.

“Oh, I’ve read this,” Marco gasped. “Have you read this?”

He flipped over the cover for Jean to see, and got raised eyebrows in response.

“ _The Black Count_?” Jean read. “No.”

“Do you know Alexander Dumas?” Marco asked, taking back the book. His fingers slid over the cover with a sort of reverence, like it was some ancient scripture and not a dusty biography.

“Uhh…” Jean thought. “I recognize the name?”

“He wrote The Count of Monte Cristo. And The Three Musketeers.”

“Ah.” As if Jean had the means to headache through that. “Cool.”

“Did you know his father was the original Count of Monte Cristo?” Marco wondered. “He came up with the story because of his dad.”

Jean blinked. “Huh.”

Marco’s attention returned to the book for a moment before he pulled himself out of whatever world he’d suddenly dipped into in that instance and replaced the book at the top of the stack with a bashful chuckle. “Sorry. I read some boring stuff.”

Jean stared at him a moment. “Someone’s gotta,” he shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Marco smiled. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

Jean made a face as he fished for his key and twisted the deadbolt to the townhouse at the far end of the walk and shoved his way inside. He slammed the door before any heat could leak out and took the stairs two at a time up to his room where he stepped out of his shoes and shirked his socks, tossing them in the laundry basket under his bed. He hissed, scrubbing his hands together to get some warmth in them before clicking the button on the base of his bed and throwing off his hoodie and shirt and heading for the shower.

He stood under the steaming water long enough to warm up and wash himself before scrubbing his hair dry and dressing in sweats and another hoodie. Slipping into bed, Jean melted into the mattress beneath his heated blanket for a few blissful moments before his eyes opened and looked at the seat of the chair at his desk. He stared for a few seconds before a hand snaked out and reached, fingers grazed the glossy cover of the book hidden there.He wasn’t sure why he was reading it, why he felt he would learn anything from it, but rushing up the winding stairs to the student archives with only five minutes to spare before the library closed to grab The Black Count before anyone else could was the most alive Jean had felt in months, maybe even years. He still felt the weight of it, the hardcover pressing against his back as he trudged home in the mostly-dark. To him, it didn’t matter that it was a dusty copy of some mind-numbing script.

Because Marco’s hands had touched it.

His fingers had grazed the edges and caressed the title with such care, and his eyes damn near sparkled looking at it. Jean figured, somehow, some minutia of that adoration had to remain somewhere--in the cracks between pages, the spaces between lines--waiting for him to tap into it, feel it, just as Marco had.

In reality, however, it was only a book. A long, boring book with small print and something of questionable origin staining and creating a brownish glue between pages twenty-eight and twenty-nine. But it didn’t matter.

Because Marco’s hands had touched it.

***

Marco spotted Jean slouched at the front corner of the lecture hall exactly two weeks, five days and twenty-two hours before he ever spoke to him officially. That which drew Marco to sit three rows behind and two seats right of the boy with the wild ashy hair and assortment of hoodies was the pens. Always blue, always Bic Xtra-Comfort grip, always one tucked behind either ear.

Marco sat behind him because he thought they looked like horns, and that made him smile.

The boy did other things which drew Marco’s interest. Sometimes he’d take one of his blue horns and use it to doodle on his fingers when the lecture was slow. Other times he’d tap a faint rhythm on the desk. Marco’s favorite was the day he brought a book to class, and sat with it open, reading and note-taking all at the same time. In his mind this boy had just found his muse, that book which captivated him in a vice until he could do nothing but read, read until there was nothing left.

The reality of it was Jean had overslept and missed an opportunity for last-minute studying on a history exam in less than an hour.

But Marco didn’t know that. And so he dreamed.

He dreamed of which world Jean had been swept up into, and with whom. He saw the color of the sky and heard the hiss of insects and felt the faint spray of mist on his skin from a nearby creek. It got in the way of his performance in class. He turned in assignments, sure, but it was apparent he’d not been attentive.

And so it was, the very thing which drew Marco to Jean, the thing which snuffed Marco’s barely passing grade, happened to be the same thing which brought the two together in the end. If Marco had happened to sit one seat to the right, his partner would have been a spritely boy with blond hair tied back, and one seat to the left would match him with the one girl in class who always seemed to have the loudest snacks in her bag. But, no, Marco sat where he sat, and because of it he learned Jean’s name and got to see up close the way short scribbles of blue tattooed the skin behind his ears.

That same ink often stained Marco’s own papers in smudges and half-fingerprints. Never once had there been a full print.

Until today. Today Jean left a perfect blue thumbprint to the side of his favorite paragraph of Marco’s hogwash essay.

Marco’s nail scratched the paper above the stain, eyes trained on it more that the words he was trying to fix. Jean’s thumb was just smaller than his own if the print could provide an accurate reference. Which meant Jean’s hand was likely just smaller than his, his long, narrow fingers the perfect size to fit between Marco’s.

Marco’s hand squeezed into a fist, his eyes screwed so tight he saw stars. There had to be something else he could think of which would distract him from thoughts of Jean for at least the amount of time it took him to fix this essay.

He was screwed tomorrow night when they were to sit together, alone, together, the only people in Jean’s apartment, together.

“Heaven help me,” Marco sighed, and carried on. Or, tried.

***

It was a quick ritual for their twice-weekly studying that the two would order pizza. Well, Jean would order pizza, and Marco would grab drinks, normally something like cherry Sprite for Jean and creme soda or Coke for himself.

Marco’s fingers ached against the cold plastic and the wind outside. He rocked up on the balls of his feet and back onto his heels once in wait for Jean to open the door, his stomach twisting the whole way. He knew himself enough to know he wouldn’t do a thing to hurt Jean, but make a fool of himself? It would be any wonder they made it out of here tonight still on speaking terms.

He flinched when the door opened, a blast of hot air hitting the sweat coating his neck.

“Oh, fuck. Thank you,” Jean sighed and grabbed the Sprite from Marco, fingers grazing his knuckles before he disappeared from the doorway and left Marco in stunned hesitation.

Marco blinked and swallowed, saying a silent prayer to himself as he followed inside and shut the door.

“So, Hoover and Braun are out for the night,” Jean started from somewhere in the kitchen. “So we can watch the whole movie tonight if you want.” He came back from behind the counter with a slice of pepperoni between his teeth, the pizza box in one hand, and cups for their drinks in the other. “Ish uff to-u do.”

Marco hated that that had to be what he was crushing on. Not that Jean happened to be one of the smartest people he’d ever met, not that he didn’t care if Marco was a shitty writer. No, what had Marco’s heart aflutter was how casual and trashy Jean allowed himself to be in his presence. It was awful, and it was horribly, dreadfully endearing.

“Whichever,” Marco shrugged, and struggled with the cap of his drink. “I only have my late classes tomorrow.”

Jean finished his pizza and reached for another slice, wiping his mouth with his thumb in a way that certainly didn’t have Marco’s throat swelling. “My first class starts at six, but I doubt the roomies would shit if you just stayed the night.”

Marco pretended he didn’t hear that last bit in favor of reaching for his bag and fishing out the third season pack of Mad Men. They were only assigned to watch an episode of the first season, but apparently Jean was one of the two people Marco knew who actually liked the show, and it was easy to watch at the same time as studying, anyhow.

He fed the disc into the XBox and hit the lights, taking his seat once more and grabbing a slice for himself.

“How did the interview go?” he wondered as the opening credits started.

Jean shrugged from the corner of his eye. “Smith had to be one of the hardest people to talk to. Literally the whole recording is nothing but one-fucking-worded answers. It’s a fucking wonder how the guy has a position where he is.”

“Was he nice?”

“Nice and quiet.”

Marco watched Paul Draper, his first crush, walk on screen. “Did you at least get what you needed from him?”

Jean snorted. “Honestly I could’ve answered all those questions myself. Guy’s a prick.”

“Mm,” Marco finished his pizza and waited a beat to grab another slice. “I’m sure he’s just quiet.”

“Yeah, well,” Jean’s eyes turned to Marco, head still facing the screen so that he wouldn’t see him staring. “I’m not one for the quiet ones.”

Marco took a breath, jaw flexing. He reached for another slice without looking away from the screen.

At the same time, Jean moved his hand out to push the pizza box closer so that Marco could grab one of the good pieces with extra pepperoni. He watched Marco’s hand draw closer, distracted by the peaks and valleys of his knuckles, and failed to move his own hand out of the way.

Marco’s fingertips slid over the top of Jean’s hand featherlight and warm before Marco gasped and yanked back.

“S-sorry,” Marco stammered. His other hand rubbed his knuckles, his thumb massaging his lifeline. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No prob,” Jean muttered, though his skin was still alight with the feeling of Marco’s hand on his. He sat back once more and stared at the screen.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Marco never grabbed for another slice of pizza, in fact, he busied his hands with only holding his cup of soda pop until the end of the episode.  
It didn’t help that the next episode opened with a sex scene. A long, loud sex scene complete with gasping and a shirtless man.

Marco swallowed and averted his eyes.

“You know,” Jean started, his voice cracking. “I get a lot of things, non-monogamy being one of them, but I don’t understand what the fuck it is with straight people and wanting to fuck in an office.” He shook his head, tongue clicking. “Like, you fucking work there. Why the fuck would you want to have sex there? And all the paper is just asking for a papercut in the ass. No offense, though.”

Marco made a face. “I’m not into sex on a stack of papers.”

Jean laughed. “No shit. I meant the ‘straight people fucking at work’ thing.”

Marco stared at the screen for another moment, his thumb pressing into his palm once again. “Oh.” He swallowed the taste of Coke and pepperoni still lingering in his mouth. “Well, I...I’m not straight either, so. None taken.”

Jean was silent for a long moment, a moment in which Marco panicked that he’d be grossed out. But then...Jean specifically said ‘straight people,’ not just ‘people.’

Did that mean Jean was…?

“Wait you’re fucking gay, too?”

An embarrassed grin tugged at the corners of Marco’s mouth, enough that the dimple on his cheek shown through. “Bi,” he mumbled.

Jean’s heart raced in his chest. “Dude, fuck! How long have you known?” He sat forward, the show completely forgotten.

That warm prickle once again coasted along Marco’s cheeks, and he scratched the corner of his mouth. “I was fifteen.”

Jean laughed. “Sixteen.”

Marco chuckled. “What led up to it?”

“A joke game of truth or dare,” Jean sighed with a nostalgic grin. “What about you?”

“Uhm…” Marco laughed again. “Don’t laugh?”

A wolfish grin split Jean’s lips. “I never make promises, Bodt.”

Marco should have known as much, eyes rolling. He pointed to the screen. “I like Draper. Like, like like him.”

Jean stared, first at Marco, then the screen, then back to Marco. “You mean this whole time you’ve had me swindled believing you like this show when what it really is is the MC gives you a throbbing boner? Harsh.”

Marco laughed. “No, it’s--it’s not just that. I do like the show.”

“--and why Draper? Is it the suit? The dark hair?” Jean leaned in again. “You’ve got a thing for dark hair, don’t you?”

“No, actually it’s that he’s a business major.”

Jean made a face. “Ew.”

Marco laughed. “I like his smile. He has a very nice smile.”

Jean gave him a look. “Smile? That’s no smile, that’s a shit-eating grin.”

Marco shrugged. “Shitheads are my type.”

Jean scoffed and lifted his cup, muttering, “well shit, I’d rock your motherfucking world then.”

Marco grinned. “What was that?”

“I said,” Jean said, “that I’d rock your motherfucking world!”

Marco’s heart flipped, but wasn’t scared for some reason. “Oh? You’d rock my world? As in I’d have no part in it? You’re a twink.”  
Jean whipped to glare at him. “Twink? You’re the English Lit. major who wants to get pegged by Mary Shelley. I’m afraid you’re the only twink here, my good bitch.”

“Any man unwilling to admit getting pegged by Mary Shelley is a coward, first of all.” Marco lifted a finger to emphasize his point. “And look at yourself! You’re so twink-ish I half-expect you to sprinkle fairy dust on me!”

“Twink is a mindset.”

“If I sat on you, you would literally die, Jean.”

Jean’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh? You wanna fucking bet on it, twinkerbell?”

“What’s there to bet on? Your medical bill?”

Jean grinned at Marco, hands flattening over his thighs. He patted his lap once, twice.

Marco’s ears heated. “What’s in it for me?”

“A comfortable seat and a lovely view?”

Marco gave him a withering look. “Pass.”

“I’ll tell you a secret? A big secret that I haven’t even told my roommates.”

Marco’s curiosity piqued. He was certain he was only getting his hopes up. “Is it a secret I’ll actually like?”

Jean swallowed. “Well, I mean, I would hope so.”

Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Marco chewed his lip. There’s no way he’s talking about something else.

“Promise I’m not getting punk’d?”

Jean’s look darkened, head tilting at Marco.

“Hey, I just need to cover my assets,” Marco shrugged. “I’m not into humiliation, okay?”

Jean patted his lap again.

And this time, biting his lip, Marco actually stood and hesitantly walked to the other end of the couch. “If your legs get crushed I’m not paying your hospital bill,” he warned one final time.

He had to grab Jean’s shoulders for balance, pushing the pizza box to the side with his knee before perching right on Jean’s lap. He really was scared for a moment that he’d hurt Jean, but that shit-eating grin never left, and he trusted that if nothing else.

“Nice ass,” Jean smirked.

“Shut up,” Marco said around the burning in his cheeks. “Now, what’s the secret?”

Jean laughed. “You ready?”

“Oh, I’m on the edge of my seat, Jean.”

“It’s a little embarrassing.”

“And this isn’t a very comfortable position.” Marco shifted, making Jean’s insides stir. “Now spill.”

Jean grinned, savoring the feeling of Marco so close to him. He could even smell his shampoo from here.

“I won’t laugh,” Marco murmured, leaning barely closer. “I promise I won’t.”

His hand touched Jean’s for the third time that night, but this time he didn’t pull away, and Jean’s brain froze.

“I–” Jean started, but he couldn’t think what he was going to say. What was he going to say? “I’m.”

A tiny grin started at the corners of Marco’s lips, and he leaned closer still his weight shifting on Jean’s lap. “It’s okay,” he hummed, eyes falling shut. “It’s okay, I am, too.”

Thousands of questions buzzed through Jean’s mind like a hive of bees, his eyes fixed on Marco’s mouth drawing closer, closer.

“I’ve started reading The Black Count,” Jean blurted.

Marco’s eyes snapped open and he froze. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jean chuckled, voice shaking. “And you’re right! It’s actually really good.”

Marco stared at him a long moment. “You--what?” Dread flashed over his face. “Oh, my god. Oh, my god, that’s not--oh, my god.” He pulled back getting off Jean covering his mouth. “I didn’t--oh, my god, I’m so sorry!” He backed away, knees hitting the coffee table. “I thought–” Marco shook his head.

Jean struggled to keep up, suddenly confused where Marco’s weight no longer pressed down on his lap. “What?”

“I-I thought you were gonna--and I just–” Marco gestured at Jean, words failing him. “Jean, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think that’s what you were--oh, my god, I’m stupid.”

“What?” Jean stood, taking a step closer. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong! I just–”

“I’m such a creep, Jean. I was thinking–”

“--No, Marco I–”

“--And I just sat on you for heaven’s sake!”

Jean’s hands flew in the air. “Marco, I liked it! FUCK!” They slapped his face then. “I fucking liked it. Your ass just...had me short-circuiting there.”

Marco stared, still backed away. “You–?”

“I fucking like you, numbnuts,” Jean snarled. “That’s what I was going to say. But then I forgot because you were right there and I’m a fucking easy twink.”

Marco stared for a long moment, not saying a word.

“Please, say something.”

“I–” a hand lifted to tangle in Marco’s hair in unbelief. “Hold on. You like me? Like, Paul Draper like me?”

“Yes!”

“And you went brain dead because I sat on your lap?”

Jean sighed. “Yes.”

Marco thought for a long moment; he looked and saw something that wasn’t actually in front of him before a smile slowly touched at the corner of his lips and his eyes lifted to look at Jean again. “You still think you’re not a twink?”

Jean’s cheeks burst with color and his hands clenched at his sides. “Marco, if only you knew how much I wish I could throttle you right now.”

Marco laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Hey, if I have to look like a fool tonight then so do you!”

Jean’s arms folded. “I need incentive.”

That dimple touched Marco’s cheek, and Jean’s knees were jelly. “I can give you that, if you want.”

Jean stared at him, feeling like a fool already. “Yes, please.”

Marco took a step forward, then paused. “Just to be clear, we’re talking about kissing and not a book, right?”

Jean snarled. “God--fuck you, Bodt.”

Marco grinned as Jean stalked up to him and grabbed him by the collar. “Oka–”

Their lips mashed together, sweet with the taste of soda and pizza, and Jean tried to be strong with the buzz of Marco’s laugh in his lips. But Marco’s hands touched his front and it was all for naught.

“You really like The Black Count?” Marco asked between breaths.

Jean made a noise he hated as Marco’s hands dipped under his hoodie and touched his skin. “Not really. But you like it.”

“So?”

“So, I can hack it.”

Marco pulled back to look at him. He bit down a smile before taking Jean by the face and pulling him closer, kissing him deeper than before.

Jean made that noise again, but couldn’t find the energy to care this time.

Marco kissed him, and smiled when Jean touched him back. He hummed as Jean’s hands gnarled in his back, sliding down to the small of his back before stopping entirely. Marco chuckled.

“You don’t have to hold back for my sake, you know.”

Jean almost asked what he meant when Marco’s hands moved down his neck, down his chest, and down his arms. He grabbed Jean by the wrists and led them down, down to his back pockets.

Marco chuckled. “Now, remember. If you go brain dead, I’m not paying your hospital bill.”


End file.
